


Until the Seas Run Dry

by Sheryl_Holmes



Series: Geraskier One-Shots [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt being thick, Geraskier Week, Jaskier's singing causes problems, M/M, Minor Angst, Monster of the Week, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Week Fic, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22733353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheryl_Holmes/pseuds/Sheryl_Holmes
Summary: Geralt’s soulmark disappears after fighting a creature, and, despite having never WANTED a soulmate, he is inexplicably enraged.  Geralt is hellbent on finding whoever or whatever has taken his soulmark from him, and somehow acquires an aggravating bard along the way.  Together, they embark on an ironic quest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634668
Comments: 40
Kudos: 1243
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Until the Seas Run Dry

**Author's Note:**

> First Witcher fic ever, first slash fic ever, first challenge/fic week fic EVER (guys, I'm super excited about that one!)  
> Also, I stayed up until 4AM writing it, but are you surprised, yadda yadda, you get the drill.
> 
> I wrote this one for Geraskier Week 2020. The prompt for day one was Soulmates, and the prompt for day two was Monster Hunt. I am a day late, and this sort of has both anyway, but if I end up having the time, I WILL try to write another (more monster-licious) Monster Hunt story.
> 
> Check out the Tumblr for this fic prompt series, guys! https://geraskierweek.tumblr.com/  
> Oh! And here is my Tumblr, though it is still a bit sparse: https://sherylholmes.tumblr.com/
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt’s soulmark arrived some time into his late teenagehood—after his witcher trials. This was probably for the best for several reasons. For most witchers, their soulmarks were a reflection of their (not-so) chosen profession. They usually consisted of typical grateful job-well-done fare, i.e. _Thank you for saving my life,_ or _You killed the creature that has been tormenting my village._ Other times, and unfortunately more often, they consisted of the _Keep back, you monster!_ or _I ought to kill you, mutant scum!_ variation. Geralt occasionally wondered how a scream might end up translated in a soulmark, because if anyone knew, it would be a witcher. 

But rarely, if ever, did a witcher have a soulmark that didn’t relate to what it was witchers _did_. It only stood to reason that it should be so; after all, witchers were not known for having complex or varied lives. They never settled down, they didn’t have relationships in the usual sense of the word, and they didn’t form bonds, or so it was widely believed. The very fact that witchers _had_ soulmates should have indicated that this belief was flawed, but people rarely see the holes in their prejudices. Instead, it was often said that the soulmate of a witcher was cursed. It was seen as a tragedy as low as if one had discovered his soulmate was terminally ill; what was the point? But it was also grounds for social exile. After all, if Destiny had seen fit to bind you to a monster, it was reasoned, you must be a monster in some sense, yourself.

This was why it was good his soulmark had not arrived during childhood. For one, if it had, unlike for those other little boys yet to become witchers, he might have been convinced that destiny had made some sort of incongruous mistake. As it was, he’d fought back during the trials, but if he’d had _those_ words written on his body, he might have actually been convinced he had been built to love rather than to kill. Geralt was the only witcher he knew whose mark seemed to ignore his mutation, his profession, completely. For two, if his soulmark had shown up earlier, his witcher trials would have been absolute hell.

_I will love thee still, my dear, until all the seas run dry._

The gentle words trailed, small and hidden like a quiet admission, down the length of his shin. He was glad it wasn’t in a more prominent place, such as his arm or (God forbid) over his heart. However, the damned thing was positioned such that there was no avoiding it when he bathed. If he found himself lucky enough to come upon an inn willing to have him and prosperous enough to pay, he had a tendency to set his feet on the lip of the wooden tub, his shin always staring straight at him. Like a goddamned accusation.

He had tried to burn it off once, disgusted with the notion and (although he couldn’t face this truth) somewhat afraid of the idea that one day he could endanger someone who would trust him— _love_ him, even.

The damned thing healed and by the next morning, the little cursive letters were back where they had been the night before. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Out of all the blasted tales the witcher had heard about the loss of one’s Words and how it can shatter one’s chances of finding her or his soulmate, Geralt had never heard of Words spontaneously growing _back_. Dammit. He’d just have to try again.

And he did.

Then again.

And again.

Burns, cuts, acid: you name it, he tried it. 

He’d lost count by the time he sat heavily at a table in the back of a tavern late one evening. 

It had been decades since the mark had first made its presence known with a biting heat on his skin in the middle of the night. It had happened during a vivid dream of the sea. He could smell the saltwater, see the froth on the beach, the chill of the water against his ankles. He had his pantlegs rolled up, his shirt untucked, staring out at the blue and grey horizon. And then, still in the dream, he found himself staring impassively as an invisible quill scrawled dainty letters onto his leg. Despite his unaffected expression in the dream, the invisible quill was literally searing him, and it left a glowing red sentence in its wake. He woke up roaring.

Now, sitting in the tavern, he wondered if he should have kept count. Last night, it had been a bruxa—a kind of vampire with claws—that had shredded the skin there, leaving him raw and devoid of a mark. Even as his skin knit itself back together with his witcher healing and the aid of a potion, he was surprised to find the letters were not there. Usually, they came back as soon as his skin had healed, as if the ink was not something superficial but melanin intricately coded into particular skin cells that would always grow back the same way, every time, like a plucked hair. But it wasn’t back. That was… _new_.

Geralt called for an ale and stared, unmoving, at the tankard. It hadn’t grown back.

He tried to think of anomalies. Had it ever been removed this way before? Yes, times aplenty. What about the timing? He’d been injured innumerable times on full moons in the summer.

This wasn’t even the first time it had been a monster’s doing. 

In fact, the time before this one it had been a bloedzuiger, which had sprayed some of its bile onto a nearby cliff face. The acidic shit had richocheted onto his leg, searing off the skin from his knee to his ankle and taking the soulmark with it. But, same as always, it had been there by the third morning, when all his skin had grown back.

This time it wasn’t. It had been a whole day of scarred but otherwise _unmarked_ skin. And now he was getting uneasy about it.

What if it _didn’t_ grow back this time? He had long given up on his early attempts to divorce those words from his body, but he didn’t think he’d become attached to them in any way. For fuck’s sake, he had already determined decades ago that if he ever found his soulmate, he’d find a way to break her heart so mercilessly and disappear so thoroughly that she’d never be tempted to find him again. That was the best way to keep her safe, whoever she—or, Geralt mused, _he_ —was. He certainly hadn’t been contemplating _keeping_ his soulmate. That would, after all, require giving up the witcher life. And he’d never known a witcher to choose that way. 

He remembered an old friend from the trials, if “friend” is the word one might use. Geralt had asked him in passing, decades later, what he would do if he met his soulmate; the witcher had answered that he already _had_ met his soulmate. “I ran my silver blade through her three nights after we met,” he had said, no emotion in his voice. They had met when he had saved her from a vampire. However, apparently the vampire had bit her before the witcher put the creature in the ground. His reward was to put his new soulmate into the ground with it.

As he sat in the tavern, Geralt tried to name the feeling stirring in him, but he couldn’t find a word for it. Judging by the way his hand kept flexing against his thigh, however, he’d wager it was _rage_.

Ah, yes. That’s what it was. Livid, searing rage. The kind of rage a man can only feel when something precious has been _stolen_ from him _._

Geralt breathed through his nose. Because now, as he thought of it, it was occurring to him that his mark had not reappeared because, perhaps, his soulmate was _dead_.

Fuck. Fuck, no.

As if to test his self-control, Geralt heard a song start up in the corner of the room, tavern patrons clanging their tankards in anticipation.

Geralt groaned. It was hard enough to not lose his shit in this place without a bard adding inane melodies to the situation.

Something lilting and gentle began from the far side of the room, but Geralt was already going over in his mind ways to fix this. Because, yes, this _had_ to be fixed. 

A plan—granted, a brash plan void of finesse—formed in Geralt’s mind. He nodded, grabbed the tankard, swallowed down every drop, and slammed it on the table along with a few coins. But as he stood to leave, he found himself very much impeded by a somewhat shorter man standing directly in front of him, holding a lute. Geralt stared down at him. 

“You’re that witcher—Geralt of Rivia!”

Geralt didn’t respond other than to growl. The bard didn’t look frightened by this; instead, his face broke into a broad grin. “You _are!_ ”

He almost told him to fuck off and move, but then Geralt decided he didn’t have time either way. He stepped around the bard and made his way out the door of the tavern. To his dismay, the bard _followed him._

The night air was crisp but not cold. Summer heat clung like a film to the atmosphere until nearly ten at night, but it was thankfully nearing eleven. The sky was clear enough that the silver moon lit up the streets, and the smell of hay and cow shit lingered from the nearby farms.

“Are you off to slay a beast?” the eager bard asked, tucking his lute behind him as he watched Geralt untie Roach from an overhang beam. Geralt pointedly did not respond, mounting his horse. “Ah, I bet you are. How exciting! Do you have any idea how exhausting it has been being surrounded by these provincial taverngoers? I haven’t met anyone this interesting since I passed through Cartrough!”

Geralt didn’t know where the fuck Cartrough was, and he wasn’t in the mood for company. But the bastard continued after him even as Geralt began to trot out of the village toward the forest at the edges. He glanced down at the bard through the corner of his eye.

“What’s in the forest?” he asked, peering up at Geralt curiously. “Can I come?” Geralt thought about telling him to fuck off, when he remembered that the thing he was going into the forest to find would very likely need bait to draw it out. Perhaps to avoid agreeing and damning himself or, worse, saying no and having the bard ignore the dismissal altogether, Geralt chose to grunt. The bard’s face lit up.

“Was that a yes? It _was!_ ” It wasn’t, but whatever.

***

They found themselves at the swamp. The fucker—Jaskier was his name, apparently—hadn’t shut up since the tavern. He had ranted about the difficulties of songwriting without life experiences, about how he had left his home on the coast to gain such experiences, how he longed for adventure, but how he missed his mother’s cooking. He spoke about women he had bedded in attempts to write good love songs but, to his frustration, found that “fucking someone is very far removed from being in love with her, indeed!” He told Geralt about what his mother would say—“She would say, ‘Dandelion’—oh, she always called me that, embarrassing little nickname that she gave me, a translation of my name—oh, why am I telling you that? I don’t tell anyone about that nickname, it’s so personal, you see, but you’re so taciturn I get the feeling you won’t be telling anyone any time soon. Are you a mute? I think you might be a mute. What was I saying? Oh, yes! My mother, she would say, ‘Dandelion, you can’t expect to write a good love song until you’ve met the one you were meant to love!’ But I always thought that was quite silly because Lord only _knows_ when I’ll get to meet my soulmate, and I can’t be expected to write shit songs in the interim, now can I?” This had gone on for four hours.

Then, Geralt abruptly stopped Roach and dismounted. Jaskier leaned forward, his voice dropping a register as Geralt crouched next to a tree and picked up some leaves. “What is it?” Geralt sniffed the leaves. “What vile creature are we looking for?”

The witcher considered answering that question, but as he stood up and looked behind the bard, he realized Jaskier’s question was about to be answered for him.

Slinking down from a tree over the marshy water nearby, it dropped to the ground. Geralt waited, his hand ready to reach for his sword. In the darkness, Jaskier couldn’t possibly know what was coming nearer, crawling low in the stagnant water. Ripples lazily uncoiled from the figure’s movements. The moonlight barely broke through the willows, casting strange and frightening shapes onto the waterscape, onto bones half-hidden in the mud. Mist rose to their ankles. Jaskier’s eyes were wide yet unafraid, still unaware of what drew closer behind him. He simply stared at this stranger he had blindly followed into the woods toward a swamp creature for no reason other than for the promise of excitement, still waiting for a response. Geralt’s last coherent thought was that Jaskier’s inherent trust was strangely pure. 

Then the bruxa’s mate, enraged, was in the air, claws and blood red hair and fangs as a silhouette against the shadows, soaring toward Jaskier’s head. It screeched, and gooseflesh broke out on Jaskier’s skin before he could even turn to see what was behind him. Geralt provided a swift kick to Jaskier’s chest, and the bard doubled over, just as he swung the silver sword at the vampire’s head. The creature, however, dodged it coolly, rolling into a dive. It disappeared into the water, deeper several yards away. 

Jaskier stayed coughing, curled in on himself, half crouched in the mud. Geralt’s eyes surveyed the water. A moment later, he was rewarded by two beady red eyes rising out of the water, and an evil grin of sharpened teeth.

This was not one of Geralt’s best plans. He’d only been hired to kill the one bruxa those nights ago because it was well-known that the male vampire counterparts quickly found new territory after a mate had died. He was lucky this one stuck around. And, while he doubted an inspection of its body would yield any solid answers, he suspected that if there had been something especially magical about the bruxa’s flaying of his leg, the flavor of that magic would still be on whatever thing or creature she had been in close proximity to. And since Geralt had burned her body, her lover was the closest thing he had to make that determination. But he’d have to kill it first.

“Come and get me, fucker,” he growled, his hands gripping the sword tighter.

The creature lunged, galloping on all fours out of the water, tendrils of drenched hair streaming behind it and clumps of mud coming loose under its claws. Geralt drew back his sword, attempting to swipe at the thing a second time, but it was fast. Instead, it caught its left claw on his left shoulder, swung itself around him until its teeth were about to rip into his throat from behind. Geralt’s sword fell heavily into the water. Thinking fast, he threw himself backward at the same moment, using the centrifugal force of its weight swinging against him to his advantage. They crashed against a tree, the decrepit vampire pinned against the oak by Geralt’s weight. He knew his eyes had become black pools by now, his face pale and veins surrounding his features. In the past, people had found this especially disconcerting (that’s an understatement). But from this vantage point, he could see Jaskier was standing, eyes huge, and, yes, frightened. But—fuck, he also looked _thrilled._ Why the hell wasn’t he _running?_ If not from the vampire, then from _Geralt?_ Unwilling to analyze it too deeply, Geralt grunted at this. He was, after all, still dealing with the creature clinging to his back, and he unsheathed a knife strapped to his thigh.

It made a wet sound as it entered the vampire’s throat, but it only served to make the thing angry. It kicked out against him, shredding his shirt and back with its talons. Geralt tumbled forward, the creature falling. The knife was still stuck in its throat, dripping dark blood, but seeming to do very little to slow the abomination down.

Great. Now he was one sword and one knife down. He still had another sword strapped to Roach, but she had thankfully ridden a ways off to protect herself. Even then, that sword wasn’t silver, so it was about as useless at the moment as his knife had been.

The creature could see this predicament and grinned again, lips pulling back into an inhuman grimace. It lunged again, tackling Geralt into the water. It wasn’t very deep, but it was murky and tasted foul. And, while it was decidedly unpleasant to have the creature’s talons sunk into his chest and its face so near to his, this was a better situation than he had been in a moment prior, as he now found his sword lying in the water directly to his left. 

He grasped the hilt and, before the thing could get its teeth into his eyes, skewered it through its ribs from the side.

Underwater, Geralt was thankfully saved somewhat from the sound it emitted as the sword pierced its heart. But suffice to say that even then, his ears hurt.

The witcher kicked the thing off his body, its claws sliding painfully out of his flesh, and sat up, water sluicing off him. He took a deep breath. 

Standing in front of him was a very distressed bard. Geralt stood from the water, still drenched, and approached the bard, who was holding his hands against his ears. He was breathing heavy.

“My GOD that hurt!” he shouted. Geralt snorted a laugh.

“You wanted an adventure, Dandelion, and I gave you one.”

“WHAT?” he shouted back, squinting as he stared at Geralt’s lips. 

Geralt shook his head, then turned back to the corpse to inspect it for magic residue. These kinds of vampires could scream at very high registers as a defense mechanism, but the effects were never permanent. The bard would be fine.

***

It was two years later that the bard and the witcher sat together around the fire at their camp for the night. Roach whinnied lightly as Jaskier fed her an apple.

They’d been traveling together ever since Jaskier followed Geralt out of that tavern. It was odd, but for as incompatible they appeared to be, they complemented one another’s dispositions quite well at least half the time. Geralt refused to call him a friend, but Jaskier knew by now that this was fueled not by distaste but by a fear of losing people. They had spent at least a year taking jobs while Geralt sought out and visited various magical experts. About what, he never told Jaskier; he wasn’t allowed in the room whenever Geralt was speaking with a sorcerer or sorceress about whatever he was seeking. Whatever it was, he appeared to have given it up within eighteen months. They had finally reached a town where Geralt knew the local mage— _Yennefer_ she was called. That had gone horribly in that whatever she told him had him both angry and petulant for the next two days, drinking copiously in the local tavern. 

(In truth, Yennefer had laughed in his face and told him his problem wasn’t with the mark, but with his heart, and that she suspected Destiny was intentionally making things difficult for him until he finally decided not to sabotage its blessings to him. “What fucking blessings? I’ve been trying to get my soulmark back for fucking months—” “And you’d tried to get rid of it for decades before that, don’t think I don’t remember. You sliced it off in front of me once then told me to watch it grow back like it was a damn party trick, never mind the fact that seeing that those Words weren’t _mine_ tore a hole through me.” She had looked at him then with absolute vitriol in her violet eyes. Reminded of their failed romance shut him up. She spoke again: “You will accept that the mark is gone until Destiny sees fit to reinstate it, if ever, presumably when you stop trying to _fuck it up_. But no, Geralt, from what I can tell with my magic, your soulmate is not _dead_. So, you can _stop_ _looking_.”)

After that, it was just travel and jobs and Jaskier’s music in various establishments. Jaskier loved every minute of it.

Tonight, the fire was warm, the food was good, and Jaskier was playing his favorite songs.

 _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ was a good one, but that was for the crowds. No, Jaskier’s favorites were the folk songs from his village, the ones his mother used to sing for him. 

“My love is like a red, red rose,” he began, the chords airy, his voice almost a whisper. Geralt sat back against a tree, his eyes closed, letting the peace and the music seep into him.

That was, until Jaskier reached the words “ _I will love thee still, my dear, until all the seas run dry.”_

Geralt’s eyes sprung open.

“Sing that again,” he interrupted, his voice broaching no argument as the lute’s chords sharply cut off. But then, it is Jaskier after all, so of course he broached an argument.

“I _was_ singing it, but you interrupted!” he scowled.

“Jaskier!” he growled. “ _Sing the damn verse again._ ”

With guilty eyes, Jaskier hesitated. Then, “And fair art thou my bonnie…,” here, he cleared his throat, and shifted his eyes to watch his fingers play over the word that could either have been “lass” or, more controversially in this context, “lad.” But he kept going, singing in a tone of absolute longing: “How deep in love am I…” As he reached the end of the phrase, his eyes slid to Geralt’s of their own accord, betraying the vulnerability in his expression. Quick as a whip, he seemed to come to a decision, and the vulnerable fear was replaced with an equally vulnerable bravado—the expression of a man who knows he is making a mistake by being honest, but chooses to do so because to lie any longer would poison his own soul. And the words that came next, though written by another, were as true as Jaskier had ever spoken: “And I will love thee still, my dear, until all the seas run dry.” 

His voice had cracked with the last note, but it only sounded that much more tragic, that much more beautiful. And tragic was the word he was thinking of, because he could not imagine any universe in which Geralt of Rivia, who had spent the past two years searching for _someone_ (no, Jaskier wasn’t stupid), would suddenly decide that Jaskier’s love was worth more. Destiny had not seen fit to bind them, and Jaskier was keenly aware of that fact each and every day. But, while he knew it was a lost cause, and while he knew it was taboo to say such things, there had never been anyone he had wanted so badly to tell Destiny to fuck off for than he did for his witcher.

Geralt sat still as stone against the tree, watching Jaskier, who now was suddenly trembling. He held onto his lute for dear life.

“Jaskier,” he began, and the bard braced himself, “you are from the coast.”

At this, Jaskier barked out a laugh. So, that’s how he was playing this, then? He was just going to pretend that Jaskier had given a lovely performance, but that’s all that it was? He warred with himself, caught between bitterness and relief. “Yes,” he replied to Geralt, almost condescendingly, “I am from the coast.”

“Then to love until the seas run dry is a sentiment that I imagine costs you that much more.”

Jaskier was silent. _Oh_. He swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded.

“Did you play that song the night we met?”

The bard took a deep breath. “Ah, so you’ve remembered. Yes, well, when I saw you sitting there, all stoic and regal, I may have begun to… _sing_ to you.” Jaskier winced. “I thought you were ignoring me—and then I _knew_ you were ignoring me the entire bloody walk to the swamp. But I’d rather hoped you wouldn’t bring it up. And you didn’t!” he smiled, but it looked like a grimace, “Or, at least you didn’t for two years or so…”

Suddenly, Geralt was hissing in a breath and reaching for his leg. Jaskier’s eyebrows drew down in concern. “Geralt? What is it?”

“My fucking _leg._ ” And he pulled up the pantleg to reveal his soulmark, freshly written in searing heat. “Destiny—that _bitch_ ,” he grumbled under his breath. Yennefer’s voice taunted him in his head, saying, _You will accept that the mark is gone until Destiny sees fit to reinstate it, if ever, presumably when you stop trying to fuck it up._ Geralt rubbed at his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

But Jaskier was staring at his leg with an open mouth. His lute slipped from his fingers and tumbled onto the ground, which was fucking unheard of for him; he worshipped that instrument.

“Is—Geralt, is—” He gasped for breath, caught halfway between laughter and astonishment. His fingers gripped his hair and his other hand landed on his hip as he began to pace in front of the fire. Geralt watched him silently.

“You—but—I don’t even _remember_ the first words you said to me, but I _know_ they weren’t my soulmark!” Jaskier laughed manically. He was halfway to hysterics. “Right? Geralt, what did you say when we met?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he groused, shaking his own head. “Not that I can remember, anyway. What does your soulmark say?”

Jaskier didn’t speak for a moment, then he went back to pacing, mumbling under his breath something about _only my mother calls me that_.

“ _Dandelion?_ ” Geralt ventured. Jaskier slowed his pace then stopped, his back to Geralt. Abruptly, he turned on his heel to face the witcher fully. 

“How did you know my mother called me that?”

“You told me the night we met. You wouldn’t shut up on the ride to the swamp.”

“I’ve never—”

“You’ve never told anyone that, yes, you said,” Geralt groaned, pulling himself upright. “I remember. You told me to keep it to myself.”

“And…did you… _say_ it to me?”

Geralt stood, arms at his sides with his shoulder hunched in something reminiscent of a battle pose. Jaskier, on the other hand, was facing him with an expression of ambivalence—longing and hope battling with fear, fear that this was too good to be true.

And then Geralt remembered. “After the vampire screeched, you couldn’t hear,” it dawned on him. “I called you Dandelion to tease you, reminded you that you were the one who’d wanted a damn adventure.”

They stared one another down in the night, the campfire casting an orange glow on their features. After a moment, Jaskier began to unbutton his shirt. Geralt said nothing, watching patiently, until Jaskier pulled back one of the panels of the fabric to reveal staccato script struck horizontally over his heart, as if someone had haphazardly tried to cut him but left behind words, instead.

Geralt stepped forward, his feet not making a sound. He could hear his own slow heartbeat in his head. His hand reached out to trace the words, light fingertips gracing Jaskier’s skin. He was running hot, and his eyes were pleading with Geralt for something, anything, what?

_You wanted an adventure, Dandelion, and I gave you one._

The tension broke as Geralt read those words, and reread them, over and over in his mind. Despite himself, he was smiling. 

And Jaskier, bless him, was smiling back, tears spilling over onto his cheeks.

Geralt’s eyes met his, and he was reminded of the two years he had spent searching for the man who was walking alongside him the entire time. It reeked of irony, but now Geralt was in too deep to let Jaskier go; he’d known that on some level even before Jaskier had thought to sing that same song to him tonight. 

So, he laid his hand on his bard’s cheek and touched his forehead to his.

“Until the seas run dry,” Jaskier whispered, and it was a promise. Geralt kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is the Scottish ballad "My Love is a Red, Red Rose." Please imagine it in Joey Batey's voice, because I think that would sound so beautiful...


End file.
